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The mud may nearly drag a man's boot off at his every step indeed, it often does; but the man must go on digging, shovelling, lining the trench with tins, logs, bricks, and planks in the hope that one day he may have put enough flooring into the trench to reach solid ground beneath the mud. All this, of course, is only the infantryman's idea of things.
Covered with dirt, sometimes half-buried in fallen trench, he wagered his next week's tobacco rations that the London papers would print the same old story: "Along the western front there is nothing to report." And usually he won. Trench mortaring was more to our liking. That is an infantryman's game, and, while extremely hazardous, the men in the trenches have a sporting chance.
But gunpowder and the bayonet have changed this; and now the most confident and domineering cavalryman will put spurs to his horse and fly at a gallop, if he sees the muzzle of an infantryman's rifle, with its glittering bayonet, pointed at him from the thicket.
It is an unpleasant experience, marching under fire, on top of the ground, even though it is dark and the enemy is shelling haphazardly. We machine gunners were always heavily loaded. In addition to the usual infantryman's burden, we had our machine guns to carry, and our ammunition, water supply, tools and instruments. We were very eager to get under cover, but we had to go slowly.
The brancardiers repeated the same comments after every explosion. I thought: "They have been saying this to each other for over three years. It has become automatic. They will never be able to stop." I was feverish, perhaps. If it was fever, it burned away any illusions I may have had of modern warfare from the infantryman's viewpoint.
Besides the ordinary infantryman's equipment, no light weight, we had our blankets, three telescopes, compasses, and a lot of maps, books, and stationery, and our daily ration to carry as well. By good luck, however, we found an old German hand-cart in very fair condition about the station yard; and we used this hand-cart for getting our gear along for many a weary mile.
He wore a pair of infantryman's trousers, a rancheman's red shirt, and an Indian blanket of the same color was thrown over his shoulders. His head was covered by a Mexican sombrero, and his feet were protected by a pair of gaudily-ornamented moccasins. While waiting for the troopers to come up he filled a short black pipe and lighted it at the smoldering fire beside which he had been sleeping.
A soldier can not march with sore feet, and marching is the main part of an infantryman's daily duty in the field. All soldiers should be familiar with the proper methods of caring for the feet. Sore feet are generally due to carelessness, neglect, or ignorance on the part of the soldier. The most important factor in the care of the feet and the marching ability of the soldier is the shoe.
It was the calmness that irritated Aintree. His eyes sought for the infantryman's cap and found a sombrero. "You damned leatherneck," he began, "I'll report " "I'm not a marine, either," interrupted Standish. "I'm a policeman. Move on," he ordered, "you're keeping these people waiting."
Stannard and remarked, "Well, I'm much obliged, but you see I'm rather bound as yet to our ladies," and plainly intimated that he hoped Mrs. Stannard would offer him the spare room on the parlor floor, but Mrs. Stannard did nothing of the kind; and, not very gracefully, he availed himself of the young infantryman's courtesy.
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